Thy Kingdom Come (Navitas Post-Apocalyptic Series)

by Daniel Adorno

  In under an hour, the dining table is prepped for the operation and covered in multiple bedsheets. Mr. Gray and I stand anxiously over Zechariah's half-conscious body waiting to begin. Mrs. Gray provided me with a general overview of all the tools needed for the amputation so I can hand them to Mr. Gray when needed. Beads of sweat pour out from my forehead when Mr. Gray preps his son's right leg for the procedure with an iodine solution. Mrs. Gray gives instructions to us about ten feet away from the foot of the basement stairs. She’s dressed in medical scrubs with hands gloved and her face fully covered in a hazmat mask. In contrast, Mr. Gray and I wore basic surgical masks and large aprons over our bodies. None of the scrubs Mrs. Gray owned fit us, but it didn't matter since she was the most vulnerable anyway. I’m not sure Navitas spreads through the air, but that didn't stop Mr. Gray from insisting his wife take every necessary precaution. The sight of Mrs. Gray in the eerie outfit reminds me of the Ebola pandemic that struck when my parents were children. They told me stories of having to wear face masks and gloves to school when the disease hit the United States. Those stories seem benign now compared to the fallout of Navitas.

  "Okay, the leg is prepped. What's next, Jess?" Mr. Gray says, forcing me back to the task at hand.

  "Dex, grab the syringe of ketamine and inject the full dosage into Zechariah’s arm. Find a good vein like I showed you,” Mrs. Gray says, her voice is muffled and raspy through the mask.

  I grab the long syringe on the stool next to the table and ready myself to stick it into Zechariah's arm. With my left hand I tap the vein like Mrs. Gray showed me, waiting for it to bulge a little. When it does I inject the ketamine and push down on the plunger until it's empty. Zechariah's half-opened eyes close as the medicine does it work to anesthetize his body.

  "We're ready to start," Malcolm says after checking his son's pulse.

  "Why don't we say a prayer first, Malcolm?" Mrs. Gray whispers.

  Mr. Gray nods then bows his head. "Heavenly Father, please guide our hands through this operation. Help us stop the spread of this virus in Zechariah's body...and save his life. We desperately need you now, please...don't forsake us."

  On the outside, I affirm Mr. Gray's prayer and whisper an "amen" as he concludes, but my heart is not truly in it. I know all too well how prayer can fail in a situation like this. So I prepare for the worst as I hand Mr. Gray the scalpel for the first incision.

  I've never been squeamish around blood, having taken a semester's worth of Medical and Surgical Basics for college prep during my junior year. Aware of my interest in science and medicine, my mother thought it would be a good idea for me to take relevant courses. I watched around ten holo streams of actual surgeries and even witnessed a live tonsillectomy performed by Mrs. Gray for one of my required assignments. But this is different, I know the patient. Seeing the blood drip from Zechariah's leg instantly makes my stomach churn.

  I do my best to keep up with Mr. Gray's requests for every tool as he follows Mrs. Gray's instructions. Most of the time, I try to divert my eyes from the sight in front of me. I don't want to throw up, but every so often I take a curious peek. The infection hasn't spread above Zechariah's knee, which Mrs. Gray tells us is a relief. An amputation above the knee would be more difficult. Beneath the skin, traces of Navitas are present. The muscle tissue in Zechariah’s shin has a slight metallic sheen and Mr. Gray notices several veins with a pale glow.

  "Then we have to cut higher," Mrs. Gray says, responding to the discovery.

  I'm not sure how much Mr. Gray cut on the first attempt, but his tight, furrowed brows tell me it must have been deep. The new cut seems to go quicker as the detailed commands from Mrs. Gray become less frequent. When Mr. Gray asks for the hacksaw, I’m certain he's reached the bone. I hand it to him and close my eyes, attempting to shut out the sight that's already playing in my mind from the sound of sawing.

  The whole procedure takes over an hour and when the infected leg is discarded, Mrs. Gray asks me to clean the incision and check for any infection. I thoroughly cleanse the area with an antiseptic solution and check for any sign of Navitas. A wave of dizziness puts me off-balance at the sight of all the blood on the table.

  "Dex, are you all right?" Mr. Gray asks, noting the pallid color my face has probably turned.

  "Yeah," I lie. Those holo stream surgeries didn’t do real blood any justice. "I don't see any signs of infection."

  Mr. Gray purses his lips and nods. I turn my face away as he sutures the stump below Zechariah's knee. His face and neck are drenched in sweat as he carefully sows the skin to close the incision.

  "The ketamine is going to wear off soon," Mrs. Gray warns. "Dex, there are vials of morphine in the laundry room—can you go get them?"

  I nod, glad for an excuse to get away from the surgery. Inside the laundry room, I let out a heavy sigh as I grab the three morphine vials on the counter next to the dryer. I shove the small glass bottles into my apron pocket and close my eyes for a moment. My thoughts go to Cassidy. She still doesn't know everything that’s happened with Zechariah and the Mindless attack. I make a mental note to radio her after we’re done with the surgery.

  It's hard to determine how much Zechariah will suffer from the loss of his leg. He's been in and out of consciousness since the sparkhound bit him, so I'm not even sure he knows what happened. As I walk to the operating table and watch Mr. Gray sow the skin flaps of his son's leg together, I wonder how many more casualties Navitas will take.

  How long can we survive in this basement before more Mindless find us and infect or kill us? Part of me hopes Mr. Gray is pondering the same question, but I think survival and avoiding detection are still at the top of his priority list. I can't live like this though, watching helplessly as someone else I love is wounded or killed by Mindless. Besides Cassidy and the Grays, I have no friends left. And the last member of my family living in the state, uncle Richard, could be dead. He worked at Dronis Biotech as a lead technology designer. On IlluMonday, the company's headquarters in Minneapolis were the first place the Mindless emerged from, so it's likely that he’s been killed in the aftermath. The last news report I heard on the radio suggested that some Dronis employees had survived and found refuge in an underground facility beneath the ground level.

  Months ago, I asked Mr. Gray if it was possible my uncle survived, but he dismissed the idea. He discouraged me from worrying too much about my uncle and told me to move on. Now I wonder if he was discouraging me from leaving to search for Richard. But what if he’s still alive in an underground bunker at Dronis? Uncle Richard is a resourceful and intelligent man, I don’t doubt he somehow escaped the Navitas outbreak. Nobody knows exactly what happened on IlluMonday except for Dronis. If there is a way to find a cure for Navitas and stop the Mindless, I'm confident my uncle would know about it.

  "Hand me the morphine, Dex," Mr. Gray says, disrupting my thoughts. "I think Zechariah is coming to."

  After watching Mr. Gray inject the vial of morphine into Zechariah's stump, I decide it’s time to leave and search for my uncle. Mr. Gray will try to stop me, but I've got to find out why all this has happened. Why my parents died and why the Navitas virus even exists. Uncle Richard has the answers. I have to find him.

  Six

  Everyone in the house slept well after the surgery, including Zechariah. I sleep through the rest of the day and wake up the next morning groggy, but energized. It's around six in the morning when I get dressed, grab the radio and my father's notebook, and leave my room. Mr. Gray is snoring on the couch in the family room and the door to his bedroom is shut, meaning Mrs. Gray and Zechariah are still asleep too. I tiptoe from my bedroom to the basement stairs and head up to the main level.

  The windows upstairs are boarded up and most of the mess from the attack is cleaned up. But there's still dried blood stains in the kitchen where the Mindless' bodies had laid. I maneuver through the living room and close the master bedroom door once I'm inside. The large windows allow the morning sun to gleam int
o the room and give a view of the farmland outside. I'm thankful that Mr. Gray left these windows uncovered. I don't expect Cassidy will be awake this early, but I try to contact her anyway.

  "Burger Maid, are you there?" I say into the handset.

  The sound of static greets me back, so I toss the radio on the bed and sit. I turn to the next entry in my father's notebook and try to think of something to write. Zechariah's survival comes to mind, so I write it down. The familiar call of a chickadee outside also makes the list and the nice view outside. Before I'm finished, the radio clicks and Cassidy's voice crackles into the speaker. "Burger Maid to Finny Boy. You called?"

  I drop my pencil and snatch the radio. "Burger Maid, copy! I'm here."

  "What happened the other night? Did Mr. Gray catch you on the radio?" She asks.

  "No, we had an unexpected visit from some Mindless," I reply, attempting to be humorous, but failing.

  "Are you joking?"

  "No. We were attacked."

  "Is everyone all right? Did anyone get...infected?" Cassidy asks. Her voice drops in volume when she says the word, no doubt thinking about her mother.

  "Zechariah got bit by a sparkhound—"

  "Oh no! Oh, Dex, you've got to get out of there!"

  "Cassidy, calm down. Zechariah is going to be fine. We stopped the infection," I say.

  There was a silent pause on the other end. "You can't stop it, Dex. We couldn't do anything when Mom got it," she says.

  "We amputated Zechariah's leg, above the bite on his ankle. I, uh, helped Mr. Gray with the surgery." The image of blood smeared on the table hits me unexpectedly and I taste a hint of bile in the back of my throat.

  "Oh, wow. You really cut off his leg? How is he doing? Are you sure he's not infected anymore?" She asks each question in rapid succession.

  I laugh at her inquisitiveness. I'd forgotten how excitable she can get when she's curious. "Mrs. Gray is positive he's okay. He's not showing any of the symptoms of Navitas, so I think he'll be all right. Well, except for the losing a leg part."

  "Have you talked to him since it happened?"

  The question is takes me off guard. I hadn't really thought about what I'd say to Zechariah. I’m not sure how I'd react to waking up with one of my legs missing. Knowing Zechariah, he'll probably be really angry we made the decision without his approval—not like we had much choice. "No, I haven't. To be honest, I don't know what I'd say to him. We kind of got into an argument before the attack," I reply.

  "Oh? What about?" She asks.

  Now I come back to the reason I called Cassidy in the first place: my parents. Zechariah wanted to know what happened, but I wasn't ready to tell him. Am I ready to tell Cassidy? I thought I was, but now I'm not so sure. There's an awkward silence as I consider what to say.

  "Dex? Do you copy?"

  "Yeah, I'm still here. Listen, Cassidy, I needed to tell you something the other night that I’ve told no one about."

  "Your parents."

  "Yes," I say, taking a deep breath. I shut my eyes and peel back the memory in my mind like a page in an old book. That early summer day a year ago is fresh and vivid. I talk through every detail with Cassidy and relive it myself as if it's the first time I’m experiencing it.

  My parents and I had just left St. Paul around noon. We were visiting the Como Zoo, a family tradition during the summer. I had outgrown seeing bears and otters at the place since I was about twelve, but my parents kept taking me every summer. They insisted on holding hands everywhere they walked, which embarrassed me to no end. We had just gotten on the main highway when a fleet of squad cars rushed past us on the opposite side.

  "That's a lot of police cars," I say from the backseat.

  "Must be something serious," my mom says, watching another pair of emergency vehicles fly by.

  "Lord, be with the men and women helping the people who might be hurt," my father whispers.

  We come to an intersection on the road when the stoplight turns red. Without warning, a hybrid rover slams into us from behind. The impact jolts me face-first into the back of the driver's seat. Stinging pain shoots up my face as I slump backward into my seat. My father is hunched over the steering wheel and my mother is grasping the back of her neck. From the rear view window, I see the man driving the hybrid fall out of the driver’s side and onto the street.

  "Is everyone okay?" My father asks, now sitting upright.

  "I think so," my mother replies, rubbing her nape.

  "Dad, I think that guy is hurt," I say, craning my neck to find the man. He's writhing on the floor, clawing at an Illumen implant on his temple.

  My father steps out of the car and runs toward him. The man is yelling at the top of his lungs, begging my father to kill him.

  "Mom, call 911," I say.

  "I'm trying! I've got a signal, but I’m getting an automated message," she says, clicking off her mobile pad then redialing. She touches the side of the pad for the speaker function.

  "Coepi versio...coepi versio," a robotic female voice repeats over and over.

  "Hello? We need help!" My mother yells into the glowing oblong device.

  "What does that mean?" I ask.

  "I don't know. It sounds like—" she stops abruptly when a loud crash resounds outside. A truck plowed into a telephone pole several feet away from our sedan. Like a chain reaction, multiple crashes occur on the highway. Cars veer off lanes, hitting each other or other objects. My father drags the driver who hit us out of the way of an oncoming hover bus that narrowly misses them. "Dear God, what is happening?" my mother asks, blanch and wide-eyed.

  I climb out of the car to check on my father and ignore the protests from my mother. Glass shards and broken metal litter the street from the many collisions. I step up to my father, who is crouched beside the driver and checking his vitals. The man is deathly pale and no longer yelling. "Is he—?" I ask, fearing the answer.

  "No, but he has a slow heartbeat. I don't know what's wrong with him...or them," he says, gesturing with his head to the bus that almost struck him. The bus slowed to a stop before a red sports car rammed into its side. Through the cracked windows, I can see all the passengers. They’re pale and motionless. My chest tightens and a deep sinking feeling forms in my stomach. I survey the wreckage around me and the people in their vehicles. Nobody looks alive. Everything is still and an eerie quiet falls over the street.

  "Dad, we should go," I say.

  "No, we need to help these people, Dex," he replies. There's a touch of annoyance in his voice. He hates that I would suggest fleeing from the scene and abandoning people who are hurt. It's uncaring and against everything he’s taught me over the years.

  He gets up and pries open the trunk of our car; an impressive feat considering the damage from the accident. I watch as he pulls out a medical kit and a pack of road flares. The passenger's side door opens and my mother sticks her head out.

  "Tom, I can't get anyone to respond to the emergency call. I've tried the police, but nothing is getting through," she says.

  "Keep trying, they've got to be alerted to this—look at this pile-up!" he says, waving a hand around him.

  My mother sighs and climbs back inside the car. I can tell she's shaken up and needs him to comfort her, but my father is too concerned with helping the half-dead stranger on the ground.

  "Dad, I really don't think we should stay here for much longer," I say.

  "Dex, I don't want to hear it. Get me the gauze from the kit, this man's got a deep cut on his forearm here," he says.

  I try not to roll my eyes as I reach into the green metal box to grab the gauze pads. He's being ridiculous. We're not EMTs. Doesn't something about a whole block full of half-dead people bother him? "Here," I say, handing him the gauze.

  "Alright, now I need some medical tape. It's under the box of bandages—"

  "Hominem inveni," says the driver at our feet. The man's eyes are opened now. They have a faint bluish glow to them and the skin around his implant ha
s a light sheen to it like steel.

  My father and I both step away from him as he gets up slowly. He keeps repeating the phrase and I notice others are joining in. A woman and little girl crawl out from the wreckage of the sports car. Their eyes are glowing too and the veins in their necks are thicker than normal. I look around frantically and watch as pale people emerge from their crashed vehicles to form a crowd closing in around us. Chanting "hominem inveni" like a possessed mob.

  "Start the car, Dex, and get your mother out of here," my father says, handing me the car keys.

  "What? I'm not leaving without you, Dad!" I protest.

  Glass shatters behind me. I spin around and hear my mother scream as a bald man punches in the passenger side window. My father runs to the other side of the car and smashes his fist into the pale attacker. I watch frozen as he pummels the man to the ground, shocked that my father could hurt another human being.